What she describes are mountains. All kinds of mountains.Mountains halved and sheared, their white glistening meat-

mountains bordered in black oil shoresflashed and bleached until they metastasizeto the bruised t.v. horizon, the magnetic illustrations echoingand organizing themselves to a coastphotocopied and scarred and photocopied againover and over until the brutal distance becomes the mountainsconvulsing and blinking in and out of existence.

It's actually about particle physics and perspective and a touch of thermodynamics.

Mountains being allegorical for the biblical covenant and the the end times prophecy of Revelations (Both events culminate on mountains) and, like Sagan said, the illusion that the 'stars rise and set for us'. The idea is that even these mountains are subject to a universal bombardment of entropy and that, in our attempts to understand our physical existence, we further dislocate the supernatural and all the dreams it brings. Science and religion both being born from the same intrinsic desire for explanation and, most importantly, a cure for the eternity of death. The 'mountains halved and sheered', their 'white glistening meat' references atomic energy, 'black oil shores metastasized' is the entropic nature described in thermodynamics. The 'magnetic illustrations' reference astronomical photography and the 'brutal distance' references obviously the expanse of space but also the perspective, how from a distance entire systems of stars and debris appear condensed and fluid, like mountains in fog (I was thinking Pillars of Creation). Finally, "Blinking in and out of existence", the particles or the humans who discover them. I think it's about how all of our searching has yielded no answer to the fear of death, it's only made the finality of death more absolute than ever.

I am as surprised as you are. It doesn't even mention Sonic once, or his ability to traverse vertical obstacles through the principles of centrifugal inertia.

If I were you, I would write a strongly worded note to the powers that be. If there is one thing I dislike more than Sonic fanfiction which isn't actually Sonic fanfiction, it's being tricked into reading more than I would otherwise have done.

But, maybe, that's what this poem is trying to teach us. It's about reconciling one's expectations of a normative experience with the habitual upset of obstacles, not unlike the way Sonic handles loops and walls in his never ending quest to have more gold rings than Don King, or whatever the fuck it is that Sonic does. You see, life will throw things at you; one day you wake up and see a Sonic fanfic and you think, "Oh, this will be a stimulating way to start my productive day," and you click and instead there is some fucking hipster allegory for thermodynamics. But that's ok. Sometimes you marry a woman and realize, 13 years later, that she has a penis. Sometimes you go to the store expecting to buy some milk, but you find yourself balls deep in the middle of a prostitution sting in which you were in no way participating. I mean, you just went to the store to get milk and all of a sudden you're being handcuffed and read your rights. You weren't doing anything wrong, you were just asking that hooker for a light and directions to the freeway. And anyway it's immoral to entrap somebody in that way and it is especially wrong to impound their vehicle for committing a victimless crime and if anybody can give me a ride to court next week I'll give you gas money and maybe a handy j if you play your cards right.

Oh, but back to the topic. You see, maybe this poem is representative of that sovereign kind of heartbreak; that approach of reality in the path of our dream, the ultimate let down, the final addendum to life which is a blank and impossibly lonely aftermath of nothingness in defiance of all of the promises of heaven and sonic fanfictions and handy j's or gas money for a ride to court.

I suppose I knew all along it was really an act of Masturbation. The Application of the Word 'Poem' is, however, incorrect: this is what might be called a 'Word Salad', or a meaningless Load of Gibberish, much like the Paragraph you have just typed. Good evening.

Thank you again for your astute and incredibly expository critique of my fanfiction poetry/adult film screenplay. I especially enjoyed your use of the 'word salad' insult which demonstrates a towering ability of discernment for literary analysis. As such I will attempt to be as concise and academic as possible in my response to your concerns.

You see, I was once involved in the black market Japanese blue whale trade as a runner. I won't get into the details of that profession, but it involved 'running', both literally and as an allusion to crossing international borders carrying some form of whaley contraband. Often times as a 'runner' one has to negotiate absurdly improbably obstacles, I.E. customs, sniffer dogs, unfriendly Korean flight attendants, etc. Sometimes you find yourself literally running and jumping over a group of lethally dehydrated El Salvadorian immigrants trying to cross back into Texas for a pick-up. Sometimes you literally have to jump obstacles like walls and fences. And what is the endgame of any market, especially illicit markets? The procurement of wealth; currency, precious metals, gold rings attached mysteriously to a structural loops magically housed on top of a cloud, etc.

So I thought, Hmmm.... Running, jumping over immigrants, smuggling powdered BLUE whale penises to the Japanese all to try and get as many gold rings/wealth as possible. DUH, it's totally Sonic. So you see, my poem/adult film screenplay is actually a narrative confession, not unlike the confessional poetry of Lowell or Plath which transcended the beat and post-modernists and continues as a motif, especially among some of the Language poets such as Armantrout.

Sonic is a metaphor for this 'by any means necessary' form of consumerism we have inherited and to which we are just as gleefully attached. And I think, in that sense, Sonic as a character is a metaphor about all of us, as a species.

I hope you can pardon me, but your Reply was too lengthily and masturbatory for me to be bothered with reading it. I am delighted, however, to find that you seem to be fully aware that you are a Hack, and therefore continue to write Rubbish at the slightest Provocation!

And I hope you can forgive me as well for the length and duration of my erection which has far exceeded 4 hours now. Should I contact my primary care physician or go straight to an emergency room? And, for that manner, how do these medical professionals de-erect an erection? Is there some kind of sterile, medical fleshlight apparatus? Do they make the interns smack your junk around until it's over?

These questions keep me awake at night. A simple google search could solve it, but honestly I kind of enjoy the mystery in the world. You know?

I will forward your concerns about the 'hack-like' nature of my poetry to those whom professionally edit and feature my poetry in their literary publications. This is a revelation I am sure they will appreciate.

When referencing your critique and competency in this theater should I use the term "Sonic fanfiction aficionado"? Or perhaps some other designation of your frankly intimidating literary prowess.

I must also note that, having taken such a beating, I decided to have a small look at your gallery in an attempt to learn something about effective poetry and perhaps, one day, be a decent writer. I am even more impressed, albeit slightly more flaccid now. The use of defunct and cliche themes and, especially, language is top notch: "O'er", "Runneth", and other inorganic examples of someone desperately trying to write. Like a Van Halen tribute band playing a venue at a local Indian casino. It's entertaining to watch and you might even win the casino raffle for a new Kia. It's a forced throwback to the past that leaves you wondering, 'Why'? I know that, being so far out of my league here I shouldn't even attempt to offer advice, so please forgive me for this tip: Attempting to flower up a poem by employing unnatural and archaic words you think you read in a class unit about 17th century poets and playwrights never works out well. It is the easiest way to spot what you so eloquently called a 'hack'. But, possessing such a large and throbbing proficiency with cliterature as you to, I assume you are 'trying' to write like a 17th century playwright not because you falsely and adorably believe it is 'good poetry', but as a sarcastic tribute to our romantic literary past. Kudos my good man.

You have changed me for the better. I will now 'runneth o'er' all of my literature to try and get my work to that higher level.

You ever have those dreams where everything you see is not quite one thing and yet sort of the other that you recognize from your waking life? I think that's seeping through into the real world. Or maybe one day I'll wake up and everything will be fake.